


You're In A Car With A Beautiful Boy

by apollofastingdionysusdrunk (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Car rides, Confessions, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/apollofastingdionysusdrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And I can’t imagine us being friends!” Grantaire exclaimed, gaze fastened on the streets. “I’m actually a passionate human. I don’t show that enough, but my passions overrun my own restrictions. Sure we don’t get along most of the time, but I was as content as I could be sitting afar and watching you carry the sun on your shoulders and blazing the world with a spark of your fingertips. I don’t want to get close to you, not with intimacy and comradeship, because if I do I know - just fucking know - I’ll shadow the sun with my thunder and rain and see the collapse of the world before you carry it into the light - and that’s why I can’t let myself get close, okay?”</p><p>“Grantaire, stop the car.”</p><p>“Are you kidding? How are you going to get home?”</p><p>“It’s not about that, you need to stop the car!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're In A Car With A Beautiful Boy

Grantaire’s car was much like the man himself, Enjolras registers as he got in. As lean and sneaky and messy, impetuous with speed and never quiet. Enjolras didn’t know much about cars, but Grantaire proudly proclaimed his to be a Chevrolet Impala. “She’s not much of a picture, and no longer a stunning youth, but she’s very special to me,” he told Enjolras, grinning in the cheeky crooked way that he does, and not for the first time Enjolras thought he was positively odd.  
  
They were at Courfeyrac’s celebration party, happy for their enthusiastic friend for getting a promotion at work, and afterwards Enjolras found himself with no ride home - his car was at the repair shop, but Grantaire gallantly offered.  
  
Enjolras would never prize himself as a snob, but now he was beginning to regret his agreement. Surprisingly, it was not Grantaire’s brand of humor or deliberation to wind Enjolras up that pisses him off, but rather the chaos. There was an empty sushi container on the dashboard next to a small ashtray, a box of high heels neglected next to Enjolras’ feet (for whatever reason), floral scarves, comics, a scrapbook, a seemingly endless clutter of CDs, Polaroid photos plastered to the windshield.  
  
This was a sharp contrast to his own car, a vehicle he only viewed as means to get to and from places, a clean space for a busy mind. Grantaire treated his like a friend; that’s one thing he noticed about the erratic man and something he actually admired, how he can make friends out of any group of people. Which baffles and angers him why Grantaire loved annoying him so much.  
  
“Yeah, sorry about the mess,” Grantaire apologizes as he drove down the street - no, _stormed_ would be a more appropriate expression. Enjolras gritted his teeth. “Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel comes in here so often, I get too lazy to clean up. The floral scarf is Jehan’s and those heels are Cosette’s, though I do wear them myself from time to time.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Enjolras said. “But seriously, will you take caution in your driving? You know the risks of hitting people and getting into accidents are high, take more consideration.”  
  
Grantaire snorts. “Okay, god...” They were approaching more remote streets, and though he didn't actually lower the speed, he was more mindful about how he drove. “I didn’t know you live in Saint-Ouen, last time I checked you were crashing at Combeferre’s in Le Vésinet.”  
  
“I didn’t crash at Combeferre’s, we were roommates. This is only temporary housing, I’ll move back into central Paris when I’m back on my feet with the money; the area is decent enough, and I quite like the flea markets and antique shops.” He rested his cheek against the window despite the constant bumps, his sleepy eyes landing on Cosette’s heels. “How come many of our friends seem to have a lingering presence in your car, and I’ve never been in here before?”  
  
Enjolras expected Grantaire to jokingly interpret that as innuendo - ‘car’ being the key word there, but he bit his lip, and Enjolras definitely never ever noticed before that it was a constant habit of his. “Well, there was rarely a situation for you to come into my car before,” he explained. “We never really hung out much, do we? I don’t think guys like us are really cut out to be friends.”  
  
Despite his personal promise to never let anyone’s judgment about his own person hurt him, Grantaire’s remark kind of stung. Even though, yes, they bickered and argued and disagreed more than they demonstrate the opposites, their relationship structure was manifesting itself into something more meaningful, to put it in a way, for Enjolras. Though wearied by the wry cynicism and sarcastic pessimism from Grantaire, Enjolras had gradually admitted there was something refreshing and vital about him, the opposition that disarms Enjolras and differentiates point of views.  
  
But to admit such a thing was to purposely drop himself into a never-ending tunnel of eternal taunting. Enjolras has dignity.  
  
“Why not?” he found himself reflecting. “Maybe if you wouldn’t purposely deny all my ideals and seek attentions in such petty, loud ways all the time, then I would be more fond of you.” He winced at how domineering and stuck-up he sounded; that wasn’t the original intention. “I know I’ve been harsh, and if that bothers you, I can try to be...calmer, maybe we can find common ground.”  
  
“You’re not too harsh, Enjolras!” Grantaire laughed, his head thrown back slightly so the graceful lines of his throat was emphasized. Enjolras averted his eyes. “In fact, I like your harshness. You’re charming and capable of being terrible - it shows that you’re a human beneath all that pressure to be a fearless revolutionary campaign leader, and your harshness makes people listen.”  
  
“But you don’t ever listen,” Enjolras looked at him pointedly.  
  
“I listen more than you think,” his smile was sly and secretive, subtle yet distinct. “The fact of the matter is, I’ve stuck around Les Amis since the early days, remember? Sure, I was also a new college freshman and I love the company of new friends, but there’s also a huge reason why I’m still here: it’s you. My political satire artworks are all inspired by you.”  
  
“Me?” Enjolras’ eyebrows shot up. If he were a cartoon character it would’ve gone higher than his hairline. “Didn’t you state just seconds ago that guys like us aren’t cut out to be friends?”  
  
“And I can’t imagine us being friends!” Grantaire exclaimed, gaze fastened on the streets. “I’m actually a passionate human. I don’t show that enough, but my passions overrun my own restrictions. Sure we don’t get along most of the time, but I was as content as I could be sitting afar and watching you carry the sun on your shoulders and blazing the world with a spark of your fingertips. I don’t want to get close to you, not with intimacy and comradeship, because if I do I know - just fucking know - I’ll shadow the sun with my thunder and rain and see the collapse of the world before you carry it into the light - and that’s why I can’t let myself get close, okay?”  
  
“Grantaire, stop the car.”  
  
“Are you kidding? How are you going to get home?”  
  
“It’s not about that, you need to stop the car!”  
  
Eyeing Enjolras as if he was nuts, he abruptly parked to a stop. Without thinking about it a second time, Enjolras caressed Grantaire’s face with his hands and pulled him in closer. “I see potential in you, R,” he resorted to the nickname as a sign of friendliness and making amends, “I think you are beautiful, but evidently now the world has disgraced you so much you’ve disregarded that beauty. You represent the desperation of the people, and it’s a duty for me to -”  
  
“I don’t want to be seen as one of the people, Enjolras.” He sighed, though there was a blush blooming on his cheeks. “You always group individuals into a defining broad category - “the people”, “the citizens”, “the bourgeois”, “the middle-class”, “the working-class”, whatever. I am me, and I don’t want to be seen as an issue that you need to liberate. You are a people’s man, not so much a people person like I am. I’m extremely flawed but I’m not shattered glass.”  
  
“You are right,” Enjolras smiled, letting go. “I know you’re as opinionated and outspoken as I am, and I resent it when you pretend that you don’t care when it becomes apparent over the time I’ve observed you that you are very much a man who is sensitive at heart. And me, I break as well - I do hide the human beneath the fearless revolutionary, I build marble walls and rarely let anyone claw their way through them to see my doubts and weaknesses. Too much to bear.”  
  
“But you are a braver man than I am, no question. Your doubts and weaknesses are practically nonexistent next to all that strength and courage.”  
  
They sat shrouded in silence for a few minutes, the sky wringing out raindrops from its pockets until little spots of liquid pattern the windows. It was the most peace both men have had in their hectic days so far. Enjolras eyed two small photographs clipped on Grantaire’s windshield.  
  
One was a picture of the entirety of Les Amis from three years ago after winning an annual human rights award for building an accessible non-profit children’s learning organization. Enjolras was standing right at the center with all the gold in his hair and euphoria in his genuine smile, holding the award over his head.  
  
He remembered Grantaire being the root of the idea; he was best friends with Eponine, the poor but wily young woman with the cheeky devil of a little brother, Gavroche, who was too young and sharp and bright not to be given a proper education. Enjolras would always recall the first full burst of passion in Grantaire’s voice and eyes and the motions of his slender artist’s hands as he ranted about the dismal educational system of Gavroche’s cheap school and that they need to do something about the education of children, specifically underprivileged children.  
  
It was not until after he left the Musain that night with Combeferre that he realized he was in deep, unforgivable trouble. Combeferre, perceptive and intelligent best friend as he was, nodded in solemn empathy as he watched Courfeyrac place his hand on the lower back of a stranger to bring home. (But hey, Combeferre and Courfeyrac fell completely in love not so very long after - Enjolras always saw it coming.).  
  
The second picture was a trio photo taken at Marius and Cosette’s engagement party, Feuilly beaming on a smiling Grantaire’s back and holding up two fingers, with Bossuet spilling a chocolate cake over his front right at the second the photo was taken. Typical Bossuet. Affection swelled up in Enjolras’ heart; he loved his friends so much.  
  
“I love our friends,” he blurted.  
  
Grantaire was startled from a reverie. “They’re such talented losers, right?” he grins, shaking his head. “So what now, do you count me as a friend?”  
  
“Actually,” Enjolras cleared his throat, feeling light-headed and delirious and pretty much alive in the most blissful way he wasn’t used to, “I found myself in a state of emotional and romantic investment with you three years ago, and have been ever since.”  
  
He braced himself for Grantaire’s response. He could only gape at Enjolras. “Is this a fucking dream?” he pinched himself, then upon finding out this was not a dream, growled, “You bastard. You choose to tell me now? Maybe I should let you into my car more often, only great things happen in here.”  
  
He leaned forwards with a question in his eyes, and Enjolras nodded at the silent offer, then they were kissing. It started out innocent and curious, but Grantaire bit the other’s lip and Enjolras’ breathing increased, letting his hands roam all over Grantaire’s chest, tracing his fingers over the man’s impressive biceps, the way he permitted himself to fantasize about before. He emits little gasps as Grantaire started mouthing wet, deliciously open-mouthed kisses up and down his neck, those eyes wavy with desire.  
  
“W-we should continue on the road,” Enjolras forced the annoyingly sensible words out his mouth, “you can stay the night, if you want to.”  
  
“Of course I want to,” Grantaire groans, reluctantly disentangling himself from Enjolras’ arms.  
  
“Perfect,” he said, outlining Grantaire’s cutting cheekbone with his thumb as the latter started the car engine. “Let me take you out tonight first; call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather go on a first date before having sex with you.”  
  
“I don’t even usually bother to get to the dating part,” he told Enjolras. “They can’t really handle me. I scare my lovers away by my sadness and self-isolation and bitterness, so there’s no guarantee I can keep you in love with me for that long.”  
  
“I am not weak like the others,” Enjolras’ eyes sparked with defiance. “I’ve barely ever had lovers, so there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to handle my jealousy and oblivion at romance and impatience, but we’ll have to try.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hand. “I believe in you.”  
  
“Dude, you stole my line!” he faked indignation. He sobered up, eyes focused ahead. “I am serious about this, you know. And crazy about you too.”  
  
“Yeah? So am I. You’re not going to scare me away that easily.”

**Author's Note:**

> The most important thing a writer can receive from their readers is feedback/constructive criticism xx


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